When The Bough Breaks

Dr. Towle was also a paid consultant to three major pharmaceutical concerns. Translate: pusher. He had a reputation, especially among the younger doctors who were generally more conservative about drugs, as easy with the prescription pad. No one said it too loudly, because Towle had been around a long time and had lots of important patients and plenty of connections, but the whispered consensus was that he was a Dr. feel good for tots. I wondered how someone like Bonita Quinn had ended up in his practice. But there was no easy way to ask without appearing unduly nosy.

I handed the vial back to her and turned to Milo, who'd been sitting through the exchange in silence.

"Let me talk to you," I said.

"Just one moment, ma'am."

Outside the apartment I told him, "I can't hypnotize this kid. She's drugged to the gills. It would be a risk to work with her, and besides, there's little chance of getting anything worthwhile out of her."

Milo digested this.

"Shit." He scratched his head. "What if we take her off the pills for a few days?"

"That's a medical decision. We get into that and we're way out of bounds. We need the physician's permission. Which blows confidentiality."

"Who's the doc?"

I told him about Towle.

"Wonderful. But maybe he'll agree to let her off for a few days."

"Maybe, but there's no guarantee she'll give us anything. This kid's been on stimulants for a year. And what about Mrs. Q? She's scared plenty as is. Take her darling off the pills and first thing she'll do is lock the kid inside twelve hours a day. They like it quiet here."

The complex was still silent as a mausoleum. At one - forty - five in the afternoon.

"Can you at least look at the kid? Maybe she's not that doped."

Across the way the door to the Handler apartment was open. I caught a glimpse of elegance in disarray - oriental rugs, antiques, and severe acrylic furniture broken and upended, blood - spattered white walls. The police lab men worked silently, like moles.

"By now she's had her second dose, Milo."

"Shit." He punched his fist into his palm. "Just meet the kid. Give me your impression. Maybe she'll be alert."

She wasn't. Her mother led her into the living room and then left with Milo. She stared off into the distance, sucking her thumb. She was a small child. If I hadn't known her age I would have guessed it at five, maybe five - and - a - half. She had a long, grave face with oversized brown eyes. Her straight blond hair hung to her shoulders, held in place by twin plastic barettes. She wore blue jeans and a blue - greenandwhite - striped T - shirt. Her feet were dirty and bare.

I led her to a chair and sat opposite her on the couch.

"Hello, Melody. I'm Dr. Delaware. I'm a psychologist. Do you know what that is?"

No response.

"I'm the kind of doctor who doesn't give shots. What I do is talk and draw and play with kids. I try to help kids who are sad, or angry, or scared."

At the word scared she looked up for a second. Then she resumed staring past me and sucked her thumb.

"Do you know why I'm talking to you?"

A shake of the head.

"It's not because you're sick or because you've done anything wrong. We know you're a good girl."

Her eyes moved around the room, avoiding me.

"I'm here because you may have seen something last night that's important. When you couldn't sleep and were looking out the window."

She didn't answer. I continued.

"Melody, what kind of things do you like to do?"

Nothing.

"Do you like to play?"

She nodded.

"I like to play too. And I like to skate. Do you skate?"

"Uh - uh." Of course not. Skates make noise.

"And I like to watch movies. Do you watch movies?"

She mumbled something. I bent closer.

"What's that, hon?"

"On TV." Her voice was thin and quivering, a trembling breathy sound like the breeze through dry leaves.

"Uh - uh. On TV. I watch TV, too. What shows do you like to watch?"

"ScoobyDoo."

"Scooby - Doo. That's a good show. Any other shows?"

"My mama watches the soap operas."

"Do you like the soap operas?"

She shook her head.

"Pretty boring, huh?"

A hint of a smile, around the thumb.

"Do you have toys, Melody?"

"In my room."

"Could you show them to me?"

The room she shared with her mother was neither adult nor childlike in character. It was no more than ten foot square, low - ceilinged with a solitary window set high in the wall, which gave it the ambience of a dungeon. Melody and Bonita shared one twin bed unadorned by a headboard. It was half unmade, the thin chenille spread folded back to reveal rumpled sheets. On one side of the bed was a nightstand filled with bottles and jars of cold cream, hand lotion, brushes, combs and a piece of cardboard onto which a score of bobby pins were clasped. On the other side was a huge, moth - eaten stuffed walrus, made of fuzzy material and colored an atrocious turquoise blue. A baby picture was the sole adornment on the wall. A sagging bureau made of unfinished pine and covered with a crocheted doily, and the TV, were the only other pieces of furniture in the room.

In one corner was a small pile of toys.